


Object Permanence

by MercuryAlice



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: 1920s AU, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Detective Noir, Detective!Rey, F/F, Gangster!Phasma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 23:36:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6446734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryAlice/pseuds/MercuryAlice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was a woman detective, for chrissake, was a woman running a speakeasy so far out of the believable? The Captain certainly looked as if she belonged, one leg crossed over the other and perfectly at home as she seemed to take immense pleasure in making the man opposite her look as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. </p>
<p>That was who she needed to talk to, then. Her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Object Permanence

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt I ran with of Detective!Rey and Gangster!Phasma. It was supposed to be three sentences. Here we are.

**Brooklyn, 1926.**

 

New York City, or Brooklyn more specifically, hadn’t been at all what she had been expecting when she’d jumped the pond. Honestly, she wasn’t even clear on what she’d expected, she just knew it wasn’t this. Not that Rey didn’t like it-- she did. It was just far removed from London in most ways imaginable. Not all, though. People were still people, and she was still pretty good at her job. 

If she had one word to describe the city, it would be ‘exacting’.

Doubly exacting when one was standing in the borderline freezing cold of mid-January, off Dahill road, vehemently hoping one’s fingers didn’t freeze up when one had to write something down so that the whole endeavor wasn’t pointless. Rey reminded herself why she did her job in the first place-- aside from the seemingly endless unfaithful husband cases that got thrown her way since most people wouldn’t hire a woman for anything more important. She wanted to do something, something important or at least good. And this latest case offered her that, if she didn’t freeze first.

She’d worked hard enough to get this far, she wasn’t going to let a cold evening ruin it now.

People vanishing into thin air or turning up dead in the river wasn’t unusual, but over the past few years the numbers had skyrocketed and it seemed every day the papers had a new headline. According to rumors, the last tenant of the apartment she’d rented nearly two years ago had wound up dead by way of a razor in broad daylight.

The papers and police may want to ignore it, but it seemed to her, after looking into it; that it all led to here. First Command speakeasy, off Dahill road; a non-descript door that she knew for a fact didn’t lead to a non-descript room by any stretch of the imagination.

It was pointless to keep waiting for something she wasn’t going to get out here. If she wanted to find out why so many people were ending up dead, she was going to have to go in and find out. Which was one of the reasons she looked fucking ridiculous. She’d known that. And walking up to the door looking anything less than like she was another jazzbaby looking for a good time would’ve been stupid.

She could do this.

Even if she looked ridiculous doing it.

“You can do this.” Rey muttered, flexing her fingers in annoyance at the obnoxious clicking sound her shoes made as she stepped forward to cross the street. God, why would anyone want their shoes to be so loud? “You can do this.” They weren’t even hers. Actually, almost nothing she was wearing was hers. Bless Kay, across the hall in her building, and her willingness to indulge in horrific makeovers.

All she had to do was get in, take a look around, hopefully find someone to ask a few subtle questions to, and if she was lucky find an office of some kind to rifle through for anything that could point her in a more concrete direction. That was all she had to, and she could goddamn do this.

The slip of paper that passed for identification said she was ‘Flora Montgomery’, and when she reached the door she held it out. The man slouched against the wall just left of the door made a derisive click of the tongue; hat tilted far enough down that his face was obscured almost entirely. “Password, doll.” He didn’t bother even looking at the paper, so she slid it back into her-- Kay’s-- purse.

“My friend didn’t tell me I needed one.” Rey stated, chin jutting out as she frowned. “I didn’t just come all the way down here to have to go all the way home because she forgot to tell me some ridiculous password, did I?”

The snort she was met with seemed a lot less interested in genuine security than with just making her life difficult, and the shrug that followed confirmed that conclusion. “Pipe down, English. Gotta ask.” The man answered, still not moving from his place against the wall; hands in pockets. “I’m gunna do you a favor and let you in anyway, and you remember to be grateful to your friend Pitbull Mike, yeah?”

Like hell she would be, with that attitude.

“Noted.” She answered, unfortunately feeling a little more awkward than annoyed at the implication since he hadn’t moved to open the door yet.

After a beat he moved, pushing from the wall with his whole body and turning the door handle like he was doing her the mother of all favors; head still tilted just so away from the street light to keep it unreadable. “You have a good night now, y’hear?” His accent was markedly more Southern than she would have expected to find.

“Thank you.” Stepping through, she flashed a genuine smile, if for nothing else than gratitude to fate for getting her out of the cold before it started snowing in earnest. She walked past before he could be tempted to keep talking, ignoring the urge to turn around and glare at him as she felt eyes burn into her back.

It would be worth it for the story. For finding out why so many people were dying, and for the paycheck for finding out. She’d be set for at least a few years, if not life. If she didn’t end up dead herself in the process.

Rey was never one to shy from a challenge. Even if it was suffering creeps who wanted a bloody medal for opening a door.

It wasn’t like she’d never been to a bar before, she had. Just not quite like this. The music hit her square in the chest as she opened the next door a few feet in front of her, louder than she would have thought. The amount of people was nothing short of shocking, and for a second she stopped dead; eyes widening as she acclimated to a world entirely removed from the outside.

A girl no older than her nearly knocked her over, giggling as she walked past; stopping long enough to murmur an apology in a thick Brooklyn accent before going on her way past. Rey blinked twice and got her shit together. She was there to do something. Time to get her shit together.

“You can do this.” She breathed to herself, squaring her shoulders and walking with bravado purpose to the bar; cutting around people to avoid being knocked over in the close and jovial crowd.

“What’ll it be, pretty?” The barman grinned when she reached the bar, spinning an unmarked but semi full bottle in his hand.

“A-- uh.” She swallowed, aggressively thinking. “A Tom Collins. Please.” Kay mentioned it enough in her never ending stories of her nights out, it was the first thing that sprung to mind.

He nodded, giving one final spin of the bottle that found it airborne before it landed back in his hand and was then placed back on the counter behind the bar. “Comin’ right up.”

Fingers tapping against the wood, Rey looked around while she waited. Not that she drank much anyway, but it seemed like the thing to do here if she wanted to not stand out. And lord knew, she was spending food money on it, so she would bloody well drink it. Once this was over, she’d never have to worry about not eating again.

“That’ll be four dollars.” The voice tugged her out of her reverie, and she turned back with a small, forced smile.

“Thank you.” She put the money on the bar and suppressed a wince, picking up the glass and putting it down just in front of her. “So who runs this place?” She asked, as idly as possible.

“That’d be The Captain.” The bartender offered knowingly, as if it was common knowledge and he was mildly surprised that she didn’t know it already.

“Who’s he when he’s at home?” Rey continued brazenly, daring to take a sip of the drink in front of her and immediately regretting it. The sugar and lemon were tart beyond belief, and she barely managed to restrain a grimace.

He paused, leaning towards her against the bar. “She.” He nodded right, conspiratorial. “Runs this place, when she’s at home.” His tone was friendly mocking.

“Oh.” The sound escaped her without permission as she processed the information, taking another sip to cover it and failing spectacularly from the look on his face before he drew back again and began serving other patrons again.

Turning ever so slightly, she followed his nod, eyes scanning the room and landing on a severe looking woman; short blonde hair slicked back and suited as she exchanged comment with a redheaded man who looked as if he’d sucked on a lemon once and the wind had changed, keeping him that way forever. He scowled and The Captain quirked a smile at whatever they were talking about, a shrug lifting her shoulders a fraction.

For a moment, Rey thought through her initial reaction. She was a woman detective, for chrissake, was a woman running a speakeasy so far out of the believable? The Captain certainly looked as if she belonged, one leg crossed over the other and perfectly at home as she seemed to take immense pleasure in making the man opposite her look as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

That was who she needed to talk to, then. Her.

As Rey took a third and equally as awful sip of her drink, she mused on the very real possibility of this being the death of her.   

  
  
  



End file.
